FIRE ON HIGH
“Fire On High” is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. All characters and settings © Tigermark 2003-2004 unless otherwise noted. Request permission before using them, please.
The character Anatol Altaisokova is my name for a character © Max Blackrabbit, and appears in this story with his permission. The characters of Brandy, Maxwell, and Tonya are also © Max Blackrabbit and appear here with his permission. Matt Barstock and Intermountain Charter © Silver Coyote. See their story HERE.
CHAPTER 14
TRANSITIONS
Dash eased back from his leader as they threaded their way through the canyon. So far it matched the contours he had studied for their route, but a quick glance at the map showed that the third and fourth canyons from their navigation point ran parallel to each other until the final turn. The fourth canyon opened up on the wide valley their target sat in. If he had been wrong and they were in the correct canyon, they would make a final hard starboard turn and find their target about a mile out in front of them with a mesa on their right. If Dash was right and they’d taken the third canyon instead, they would make that final turn and find the mesa wall about three hundred yards ahead of them.
He made a quick mental calculation. Yes, they would be able to pull up in time, but it would involve a high-G pullup. That meant jettisoning the two bombs under his wings. As they followed the canyon’s twists and turns, Dash mentally reviewed the procedure for letting them go unarmed, and eased back a little further from Uber’s aircraft.
In the lead F-16, Mastifson was concentrating on threading his way down the canyon. It was broad enough not to feel too cramped, so he kept good speed. All was going well, he thought, except for the break in radio silence from his wingfur. How dare he! He’d dress Capt. Beck down properly after the mission. Possibly put a notation in his records. What did the Labrador think, he couldn’t count!
The two Vipers dodged and jinked around an outcropping of rock. Both pilots began to count down the turns. Three to go, a starboard 60°, a port 80°, and the final starboard 90°. Dash noticed Uber had actually increased his speed slightly. He kept his right at Best Maneuver. There were about eight aircraft lengths between the two F-16’s now, but as yet Mastifson gave no sign of noticing.
The canyon narrowed a bit just before the last turn, and Dash was glad for the extra space between his aircraft and Uber’s. He lost sight of the other aircraft momentarily as the lead rounded the last turn. As he banked sharply starboard into the turn himself, he grunted to fight the G’s as his G-suit inflated. He forced his paw over the switches on the throttle to disarm and jettison the bombs, just in case.
As he cleared the turn, Dash’s suspicions were confirmed. The mesa wall loomed directly in front of them, rising close to three hundred feet above their current altitude. He flipped the switches and the two 500lb bombs fell free, impacting the sand below without exploding. Dash pushed the throttle forward into full military power and pulled sharply up as the afterburner kicked in. He grunted even more as the G’s piled on, angling to the side to give the lead aircraft room to exit, too. He could hardly believe what he saw before his pullup, and he banked so he could keep his leader in sight. He almost gasped in shock. Uber had been slow to react, and had not jettisoned his bombs before initiating pullup. The rotweiller apparently realized that error. Dash could only hold his breath and continue his climb as he watched the bombs come off their racks and do a high, parabolic arc as the F-16 clawed its way skyward. He could see the camouflage netting that covered the FAC site that was monitoring their attack. Dash was at first concerned that either Mastifson’s aircraft or the errant bombs would strike the mobile radar antenna as they passed over it. He let the breath out and eased his climb a bit as he saw the bombs sail over and fall into the canyon on the mesa’s other side as Uber’s aircraft roared upward.
Suddenly, the radio crackled to life.
“All Bushmasters, this is Eagle’s Nest. Break, Break, Break, Knock it off. Abort your runs. Proceed to Romeo Two and RTB ASAP.”
Dash leveled off at twenty thousand and headed for the navigation fix. He had lost sight of Uber’s F-16, but he could see the others popping up from their routes and heading in that direction. Radio calls were coming in as they acknowledged the “Knock-it-off” call. Finally, he heard a growled “Bushmaster One, acknowledged” come in.
“Welp,” Dash thought, “the waste product is in the oscillator now.”
# # #
“We won’t know for sure if they took the correct canyon until they either come out headed for their target or hopefully pop up out of the canyon and abort their run,” Major Ross said with a touch of concern in his voice.
“How soon?” Col. Benkins asked, looking as though he were thinking of running.
“About ten seconds now, sir,” The squirrel replied.
“Tell your furs to be ready to dive for cover if they come over too low,” General Mastifson said, deciding quickly to be safe rather than sorry.
“Yes sir,” the Major replied, but before he could say anything, they heard the booms of aircraft going into afterburner echo out of the canyon that ended at the mesa. The Major quickly looked that way with a pair of binoculars to try to see which aircraft came out of the canyon. An F-16 came roaring out of the back of the canyon in a steep climb. Major Ross quickly focused on it as it banked over to keep sight in their direction.
“That’s, ah, Dash!” the squirrel exclaimed, “He must’ve jettisoned his bombload, his racks are empty.”
Before either rotweiller could reply, the second aircraft came out of the canyon, this time much closer.
“EVERYONE DOWN!” General Mastifson boomed as his nephew’s F-16 clawed its way over the edge of the mesa, clearing it by a few feet. He watched in horrified fascination as the two 500lb bombs that had just been released arced over their heads. He was knocked to the ground as the noise washed over him. His nephew’s Viper passed less than one hundred feet overhead, barely clearing the radar antenna. He quickly rolled over in time to see the bombs clear the far side of the mesa and drop into the valley beyond. The ground vibrated as the bombs detonated.
“That idiot didn’t even disarm them,” General Mastifson said to himself. He jumped to his feet and barked an order to the radio operator as the beagle got back to his seat.
“Call off the rest and tell them to RTB, Airfur!”
“Yes sir,” the beagle replied, looking shaken. He began making the call.
The General stepped over to where Major Ross and Colonel Benkins were getting to their feet. His tail was stiff with anger, but his voice was calm, and almost fatherly.
“Major, make sure all your furs are all right, and then I want a transcript of the radio chatter we heard, and a report from the range control electronic monitoring system waiting for me when I land back at Nellis. Thank you for the tour. Your furs do good work. C’mon Colonel.”
Without further word, General Mastifson turned and walked stiffly out from under the camo netting toward the waiting UH-60. He signaled the rather shaken-looking pilot to start engines as Col. Benkins fell quickly in behind him.
“Somebody’s gonna get roasted over this,” Major Ross said to himself as he turned to go check on his crew.
# # #
Alex sat in his recliner, reading a report on his new squadron without really paying much attention to it. The lights were low, he’d had a shower, and he was feeling a bit drowsy after his hectic day of traveling. Jenna and the cubs were at his father’s in West Virginia, so the nearest living things were the non-sentient horses in the field beside his home. Even they were probably headed to the barn for the night. He briefly considered having a run or a workout, but he felt too relaxed to start.
He reached for the remote and turned on the news channel, thinking it would be a good idea to catch up on current events here stateside after so long overseas, but he felt his attention wandering from this, also.
“That does it,” he muttered to himself, “Tomorrow I’m renting a plane and going to Dad’s. I won’t be satisfied until I’ve checked on everyone.”
Billy had said as much in their phone conversation after Alex arrived home. He had also reminded Alex that now he would need something to drive, and possibly a light aircraft to go between Langley, Lexington, and Charleston. Billy had gotten strangely quiet when Alex had joked off-pawedly that he guessed he would have to stop by and see the old tiger more often now. The lull was short, but noticeable, and now Alex had the vague feeling that something was wrong and he didn’t know about it yet.
He realized his uneasiness had grown in the quiet solitude of his home. He wouldn’t be at ease until he saw his father and Jenna and the cubs and either found out what was wrong, or satisfied himself that everything was all right.
Alex stretched long from his finger claws to the tip of his tail. He then stood up and turned the television off. He turned and padded toward the bedroom, his mind already on the morning flight.
# # #
“So you think Alex will head for West Virginia in the morning?” Penny asked as she sat a glass of warm milk in front of Billy. He had been a bit pensive, unusual for the normally-boisterous tiger, and Penny was trying to find out why.
Billy sighed and picked up the milk to take a sip as Penny sat down beside him on the sofa. She curled her bushy tail around them both as she snuggled into his side. He rather absently draped his arm around her shoulder.
Realizing she had asked him something, Billy executed his usual brilliant recovery and said, “Huh?”
“I said,” Penny teased with a smile, “that you’re going senile.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess —, what?” Billy replied, looking puzzled.
“Never mind, I asked if you think Alex will head for West Virginia in the morning,” Penny said as she reached up to scratch his chin. She was becoming concerned at her husband’s distracted behavior.
“Oh yes, I’m almost sure of it,” Billy said as he raised his chin, enjoying the scratch. “Sorry to be so distracted, but I almost gave away Anton’s secret while talking to Alex. I’m sure he now suspects something is wrong, and I’m just as sure he’s going to go check on his father.”
“Is that a bad thing? I’ve thought he should have told Alex when he first found out,” Penny said, glad to have finally got out of Billy what was bothering him.
“Maybe, but that was Anton’s choice. Now though, I think Alex is in for a shock. When Anton and Talia met Jenna and the cubs at the airport today, Anton didn’t look good at all. He’s getting thin, almost gaunt, and his eyes had a hollow look around them. This is hitting him harder than he’ll admit.”
Billy turned slightly and faced his wife, saying, “Princess, my gut’s telling me the old tiger isn’t going to win this one.”
Penny looked earnestly into her husband’s eyes. He was, in his own way, already mourning the loss he felt his friend would suffer in the not-too distant future. She snuggled closer into his side and put her head on his shoulder, her muzzle near his ear.
“Then let’s pray that their time together is good, until then,” she whispered.
Billy turned and put his forehead to hers. Together they softly prayed for their friends.
# # #
The F-16’s had arrived back at Nellis a good fifteen minutes before the UH-60 came in on approach. As they descended toward the runway, General Mastifson could hardly believe his eyes. He had expected to find his nephew and the rest of the 78th’s pilots putting their gear away at the transient crew’s storage locker room. Instead, Lt. Col. Mastifson had the pilots and their crew chiefs assembled and standing at attention in the heat and sun of the Nevada late morning. He could see two figures face to face in front of the formation. The rotweiller decided he’d best get to them as quickly as possible.
Keying the mic on his headset, General Mastifson said, “Lieutenant Walton, tell the tower I want to land on the ramp where the 78th’s aircraft are parked.”
“Yes sir,” the marten replied as he began to make the call. A few seconds later he heard the tower clear them and they angled over from the runway toward the ramp. Lt. Walton deftly settled the Blackhawk onto the ramp a short distance from the Bushmaster F-16’s.
As the rotors began to spin down, the General called out, “Thank you, gentlefurs. Could you have the tower call down to Ops and tell my driver to meet me here?”
“Sure thing, sir,” Lt. Walton replied.
The General quickly put the headset on the seat and opened the door. Col. Benkins was right behind him. As the sound of the helicopter engines died, they could clearly hear the dressing-down Lt. Col. Mastifson was giving the Labrador he stood nose to nose with. For his part, the Labrador stood silently at attention, eyes forward. His flattened ears and stiff, upright tail gave away the anger he was keeping in check.
“That’s Captain Dash Beck, your nephew’s wingfur,” Col. Benkins said quietly. The General merely nodded as he strode toward the assembled furs.
“— and I expected better from you, Captain. This was supposed to be a way of erasing the stain the loss of Captain O’Whitt left on the unit, but thanks to your sloppy radio procedure and flying, you nearly caused a catastrophe! How dare you pull out over me! You nearly caused me to fly into the side of that mesa and the FAC site. We wouldn’t have been down that—,” Lt. Col. Mastifson had just noticed his uncle and the other rotweiller walk up. He ceased ranting in his fake accent and turned to face them, snapping to attention and saluting.
“Ah, General, Colonel. Would you like to speak to the cause of that . . . fiasco?”
General Mastifson stood silently for a moment, regarding his nephew. He then returned the salute.
“Yes I would, Colonel. You and Capt. Beck will accompany Col. Benkins and I to the debriefing center, where we will go over everything that happened.”
Seeing a tall ferret with Major’s gold oak leaves on his shoulders standing in the line of furs, Gen. Mastifson called out to him, “Major, front and center.”
The Major stepped out of line and marched up to the General, stopping at attention and snapping a salute up.
“Major Frakes reporting as ordered, sir.”
General Mastifson returned the salute, and his face took on the same fatherly expression he’d had at the FAC site.
“Major, take command of the squadron. Help the crew chiefs get the aircraft buttoned up and the ordinance squared away, and then get everyone in out of this heat. I don’t want anyone down from dehydration or heat stroke. After that, stand down for the rest of the day. I’ll contact you later on resuming the exercise mission.”
“Yes sir!” Major Frakes replied, a bit surprised at the difference between General Mastifson and his nephew.
Just then, a staff car sporting a three-star flag on its fender pulled up. General Mastifson said, “Dismissed,” and saluted the Major before he could react. The General turned and walked to the car, giving a look that brought Col. Benkins, Lt. Col. Mastifson, and Capt. Beck in tow behind him. Capt. Beck went around and took the front passenger seat as the General got in back. The driver had started to get out to open the door for him, but General Mastifson waved him back to his seat. The other two rotweillers jockeyed briefly for the inside seat next to the General, who rolled his eyes in disgust at the display. The daschund driver asked, “Where to, General?”
“The Debriefing Center over at Range Ops, Staff Sergeant Bilings,” General Mastifson replied.
The daschund turned the car toward the road off the flightline as Lt. Col. Mastifson, who’d won out for the seat beside his uncle, spoke up.
“Uncle, you see what type of pilots I’m forced to—.” He stopped in mid-sentence as he noted the icy-cold stare his uncle had turned on him. The group spent the rest of the ride in uneasy silence.
They arrived at the large debriefing building, where electronic displays could give them an accurate representation of the events at the mesa. The officers silently got out and filed into the building, leaving the NCO driver to patiently wait.
Capt. Beck led the way, and as he stepped into the Debriefing Center, a cougar wearing Major’s rank confronted him.
“Captain, I’m Major Pulaski. Is this the group that nearly took out one of my FAC—!”
The Major had just seen the other officers come in, with General Mastifson in behind the other officers.
“Major, save your ire. We’re here to review the event, and appropriate measures will be taken against the one responsible,” the General stated as he walked past the cougar in mid-salute. The rest followed the General and found a place to sit in the theater-style seating. They faced several large flat-screened video displays, with readouts for each aircraft displayed on smaller monitors beneath. Two enlisted furs ran the displays from computer stations at the back of the room.
“All right, Major, spare us the routine part of the mission. Start with the last Navigation fix before the squadron split up,” General Mastifson said. The Major nodded, impressed at how well the General knew the mission profile.
The displays came to life and a representation of twelve F-16s in formation showed on the main screen. The speakers came to life and they heard Nellis Control give Uber clearance to proceed at Papa Four. He acknowledged and called out “Break, go,” to the squadron. Major Pulaski now took up the narrative.
“According to range telemetry, the formation was ordered to break fifteen seconds early. All other element leaders but Uber compensated for the early break and hit their route entry points.”
“If I missed the entry point, it was because Captain Beck’s radio call, which was against ordered radio silence, was a distraction and . . .” Lt. Col. Mastifson trailed off. His uncle had turned that same, cold stare on him, withering his statement. Col. Benkins shifted his gaze from one rotweiller to the other, as if trying to decide which to stick with. He finally settled on General Mastifson, turning his back slightly to the other canid. Capt. Beck maintained his silence, still waiting to see how things would play out.
The Major continued, “As the display shows, Uber led his wingfur down the third canyon from Papa Four, one short of the actual route entry point.”
The display, which had now zoomed in on Uber and Dash’s aircraft, was advancing about one frame every three seconds. It clicked twice and then the speakers came on again.
“Uber, this is the third canyon.”
“Maintain radio silence.”
“But this is the third canyon!”
“I said maintain radio silence.”
The Major, General, and Colonel all looked at Jefferson Mastifson, who now sat stone-faced, except for one muscle in his jaw that twitched. Dash maintained his passive face. Just because the evidence showed he was right didn’t mean it would be taken that way. The display advanced as the aircraft maneuvered through the canyon.
“Here,” Major Pulaski said, picking up the narrative again, “Dash disarmed and jettisoned his ordinance per proper procedure, and went into afterburner, initiating a climb up and away to the side of his leader’s flight path. Uber, even though he was in front, was almost too slow to act. As you can see, he barely cleared the mesa. Major Ross reported that the dirt and rock of the cliffside there was disturbed and torn up by the aircraft’s exhaust. He also barely cleared the radar antenna, and he failed to disarm his bombs before releasing them. It’s a miracle no one was killed by them, but thankfully they impacted beyond the mesa. His aircraft continued to climb up and away.”
The display ended as the radio call went out to break off the mission.
“You see!” Lt. Col. Mastifson suddenly blurted out, “he climbed over me, so I had to stay low. When he flew over, it distracted me from disarming my ordinance. It’s Capt. Beck’s fault!”
All noted that the phony Boston accent had slipped. General Mastifson continued his earlier cold stare at his nephew, and then turned to Capt. Beck.
“Captain,” he said, and then paused a long second, “An exceptional job. You alerted your flight lead to an error that would have been deadly in combat. Your quick thinking and knowledge let you dispose of your ordinance safely, and your maneuvering out of the canyon was flawless. I’m going to see to it that you get a commendation in your records.”
Dash looked slightly stunned by the compliment. “Uh, thank you, sir.”
The General’s benevolent, fatherly smile now graced his face as he said, “Please go out and have my driver take you to join your squadron mates. Tell him to return here when he’s done.”
Understanding the General’s gentle dismissal, Dash stood to attention and saluted.
“Yes sir.” He stated.
“Dismissed, Dash,” General Mastifson replied as he returned the salute. The Labrador quickly turned and walked out, and the General returned to his stone-faced, icy look.
“Uncle,” Lt. Col. Mastifson began, but his uncle silenced him with a raised paw.
“Jefferson, you were to be my legacy, the one to follow in my footsteps and carry on the name in the Air Force. I pulled rank and called in favors to aid your career. I see now that was a mistake. If I’d let some of your earlier ones have the proper consequences, there wouldn’t have been these later ones. I always knew you were arrogant, but now I see your incompetence first-paw. Better no legacy than one like that.”
He turned to the other rotweiller and said, “Colonel, Lt. Col. Jefferson Mastifson the Third is as of now grounded and relieved of command. His XO Major Frakes now has command of the 78th. You are to place him in a non-flying position on your staff where he can’t be a danger to anyone’s career or safety. He will reach the end of his current tour in about six months. At that time, he will retire. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” Col. Benkins replied, now also stone-faced.
“Do you understand my orders, Lt. Col. Mastifson?”
The rotweiller’s jaw worked as though he would either argue or chew through titanium steel, but seeing the implacable look on his uncle’s face, he finally nodded and said a strained, “yes sir.”
General Mastison snapped off a quick salute and said, “Dismissed, go call for a ride so that Lt. Col. Mastifson can get out of his gear, and then take him to the VOQ. Find him a way back to Shaw, he won’t be flying himself.” With that he turned his back on the others and sat silently.
Lt. Col. Mastifson stood for a moment. It dawned on him that his career was now over. After a few moments, he turned and sullenly followed Col. Benkins out. Major Pulaski and the enlisted systems operators found reason to quietly move out of the room.
As he sat staring blankly at the now-dark display screens, no one saw the tear that slid down the side of the General’s muzzle.
“Blind, so blind,” he muttered to himself, “time I retired, too.”
END OF CHAPTER 14